Watersheds
by TellMeMore90
Summary: John Watson had encountered many watersheds in his life, not all of them good, not all of them of his choosing. Each time he had to re-invent his life, sometimes on his own, and sometimes with the help of unexpected allies. - Contains spoilers for season 3. Discussions of a sexual nature, but nothing explicit (except one tiddly scene which is very slightly more, near the beginning)
1. Chapter 1

**I own nothing, but am eternally grateful for the genius of ACD and now MG, SM, BC, MF and the BBC crew.**

_There's no sex in this story except a tiny amount of non-con almost sex near the beginning (birthday party, 18 year old boys, alcohol, lap dancing club, 'present' for the birthday boy - get the picture)._

_I have no experience with asexuality, but have researched the subject on the internet. I apologise if I have got anything wrong. Any errors are for the sake of the story and not to cause offence._

_There have been some interesting fics dealing with sexuality and long discussions on tumblr._

_I saw a lovely S3 spoiler pic which prompted a little "what if" and more to the point, an "am I good enough to write a Sherlock fic?" - "You'll never know if you don't try" I told myself, so I did some research, let my muse flow, probably bent microscopic parts of the universe to my will and here it is._

_If you wish to comment, I would love to hear from you. Feedback is always appreciated. Please be kind, I will probably never do this again._

* * *

John Watson paused a moment as he struggled with his tie and contemplated his reflection. Once again his life was at a watershed, about to be changed irrevocably by circumstance. This was one of the few times when that decision had been his and the result would be good, all good.

He was about to stand up in front of his family and friends with the two people who had saved his life. He would marry the woman he loved under the piercing gaze of the man he loved. He could think of nothing better.

Mary had saved him when the crippling desolation of the loss of his best friend threatened to destroy him. She had pulled him back from the abyss and helped him to realise the truth of that day. Between them they had quietly pieced together the sequence of events that led to tragedy.

Much of what had happened on the roof was supposition (John could not claim it was deduction as there was insufficient data), but a lot about that day could be deduced. Having stationed assassins throughout Baker Street, it was hardly difficult to assume Moriarty would not use snipers against those closest to Sherlock to force compliance. Mrs Hudson's complaints about the useless workman who had been in her flat during those dark final few days, and who had vanished mere minutes before Mycroft's man brought her the devastating news of Sherlock's fall and John's treatment in A&E reinforced this deduction.

Armed with his evidence, John had stormed the Diogenes Club and laid all before Mycroft, demanding to know his part in the debacle and the current status of his friend. Mycroft smirked and obfuscated as normal, but had failed to appreciate that long exposure to Sherlock had made John something of an expert at translating Holmes. In the end Mycroft had congratulated John on his excellent deductions (tacit agreement that he was largely correct) and a warning to continue his life as though nothing had changed and that Sherlock was gone, for his own continued well-being.

Many would have taken Mycroft's words as a poorly veiled threat, but John knew that it was an indirect plea for his help. Not only would he be protecting himself and Mary, but also Mrs Hudson, Greg, Molly and, especially, Sherlock himself.

"I expect nothing less than your best Mycroft. As to the rest of the matter, I will do everything necessary." Mycroft nodded and, between the two men an agreement was reached. Both men would do everything they could to keep Sherlock safe.

-0-0-0-

John Watson was an inquisitive and boisterous lad. He loved nothing better than being outdoors running, hiding, climbing, throwing and, of course, sports. With his friends or on his own, he didn't mind, he just loved to make his muscles work. But when he could not be outdoors, he would have his nose buried in books. He was just as happy curled up with an adventure story as he was with an encyclopaedia or his Grandfather's old medical books, quiet and still. His parents could not believe he was the same boy.

In the summer just before his 11th birthday, John was cycling along nearby country lanes with his then best mate, Pete. Rounding a blind bend, they narrowly managed to avoid hitting a teenager who had obviously mistaken the bend and had taken a serious tumble from his bike. He lay sprawled in the road, barely conscious and bleeding profusely from a leg wound.

Despite no previous training, John swung into action. He positioned Pete around the bend to warn any oncoming traffic while John carried out a check of the patient to see if he could be moved. Satisfied that this was possible, John and Pete manoeuvred the cyclist and his stricken bike to the relative safety of the grass verge. He then got Pete to leave his belt, hanky, and his bottle of water before ordering him to cycle to the nearest phone and call an ambulance.

John carried out what first aid he could, stopping the worst of the bleeding from the leg wound and keeping 'his patient' warm and as comfortable as possible. Despite the cycle helmet, the teen displayed obvious symptoms of concussion so John kept him talking. When the ambulance finally arrived the two were chatting about the football. The paramedics were very impressed with all that John had done and that his quick thinking had saved the situation from being a lot worse.

John had reached his first watershed. He now knew he wanted to become a doctor. He begged his parents to let him join St John's Ambulance. His parents were delighted at the prospect of their little boy becoming a doctor (although there were some lengthy late night discussions about university fees and savings plans).

John's big sister, Harry, was not so pleased. Up to this point she had been the golden girl and she did not appreciate her little brother taking her limelight.

-0-0-0-

All went smoothly until John was 15. In the course of one year, John's family fell apart and he reached his second watershed.

First, the engineering factory where his father had worked for 23 years closed down when the parent company relocated its manufacturing to China. John's father spent long periods away from home, supposedly looking for work, although as time dragged on, he more often returned dishevelled and reeking of drink.

John's mother, always a bright and cheerful woman, dusted off her secretarial skills, took a night class in computing and went back to work.

His father hated that his wife was now the bread-winner. He had not forced his wife to give up work when she first became pregnant with Harriet, but at the time it was what they both wanted and, whilst money was tight, it was not impossible as John's father made enough for them to live comfortably. Now he resented that she could work and he couldn't. Despite his skills and experience he was seen as too old. He bought some ladders and a bucket and started window cleaning, but it soon became obvious that the money he made was to feed his craving for alcohol.

John's mum grew angry with watching her hard earned money disappearing down her husband's throat whilst she struggled to put food into her children and keep a roof over their heads. She opened a personal bank account for her salary and transferred payment of all the household bills there. She also moved what little savings remained to her own account.

When John's dad found out, he flew into a drunken rage and lashed out at his wife. Luckily John was there and managed to protect his mum from the worst of the beating. With her usual impeccable timing, Harry chose this moment to swan into the kitchen wrapped up in her own smug world and, ignoring the tragedy before her, announced that she was leaving to move in with her girlfriend, Pamela. She then sashayed up to her room to pack leaving emotional devastation in her wake.

When she came downstairs a while later things in the kitchen had calmed. Dad sat with his head in his hands at the kitchen table repeating over and over "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." John was applying arnica to his weeping mother's arm where a large bruise was forming. Harry was annoyed that, yet again, she was not the centre of attention as she made her grand exit.

Oblivious to the pain around her, she marched up to her mother and slapped a page torn from a notepad onto the table in front of her.

"Here's my new address and phone number. Don't visit unless I invite you. I might be … busy." She smirked at the last word as though it held some secret meaning.

Her mother put trembling fingers on the paper, pulling it slowly towards her. She lifted her red-rimmed eyes to her sneering daughter. "Will you be OK? You will be careful? I'll worry about you girls living alone. You know how some men are, wanting to take advantage."

Harry sneered again. "Oh Mother, you really are naïve. You really are so wrapped up in Johnny-boy here that you haven't noticed I'm a lesbian. Have been for years. Pam and I will be just fine."

On hearing the word "lesbian" John's father roared. He leapt from the table sending his chair flying and raged towards his daughter screaming "Get out of my house you filthy whore!" as he tried to lay hands on her. For the second time that day, John intervened between his father and the object of his drunken rage.

Harry smirked, tossed her hair and flounced out of the back door as she sneered her parting shot. "Hardly a whore, but better that than a disgusting, useless old drunk."

John tried to soothe his crying mother, whilst his father, oblivious to his own failings, raged how Harriet had brought shame upon the family and demanded what the neighbours would think.

-0-0-0-

John's father's drinking continued unabated. His parents now virtually ignored each other and only remained in the same house for the sake of appearances. Heaven forbid that the neighbours should know the true depths of their fall.

John had moved into Harry's old room as, after being thrown out of the marital bed, John's father refused to sleep in the room once used by "that slut". John had no problems with Harry's choice of partner. He occasionally lay in bed at night wondering if his father would have preferred her to be sleeping around with blokes rather than being in a presumably stable relationship with a woman.

John had not started actively dating, preferring to hang out with the lads from his badminton and rugby teams, or studying for his GCSE's.

As his 16th birthday approached his father took to throwing his arm around his son's shoulder and asking him if he'd found a nice girl yet. "Come on son, you'll be legal soon. Got your eye on a nice girl I hope. Wouldn't want you losing it to some slapper."

One evening after the usual drunken 'man' talk his dad drew out his wallet and handed his son his own foil-wrapped condom. John wasn't sure what shocked him more – that his father was offering him a condom and more or less pushing him towards having sex, or that his father carried condoms and was obviously prepared to use them. The idea that his father was having sex with women other than his mother destroyed the last threads of John's relationship with the man he had once idolised.

When his dad fell of his ladder whilst drunk, landing awkwardly on a low garden wall and breaking his neck, John grieved for the man he had lost several years before, but was glad that the wreck he had become was gone from their lives.

He supported his mum through the funeral shaking hands with people he'd never met before and accepting their condolences. His mother was insistent that they keep up appearances.

He ignored Harry's loud remarks throughout the wake about his failure to help his father and what a useless son he was. She seemed blind to her own part in the whole mess. John tried to drag her away and begged her, for their mother's sake, to keep quiet.

"Ohh, Johnny-boy. Scared of what the neighbours might say?"

"No Harry. I just don't want to make things any harder for Mum than they already are."

"Well it's all your fault anyway. If they hadn't have been so worried about raising enough money to get you to medical school, none of this would have happened."

"No Harry, Dad losing his job and being unable to cope was what caused this. Turning to the bottle and then turning to other women just made it worse. He couldn't or wouldn't fight for his family and lost himself in his own, private hell. He just couldn't face his responsibilities and ran away straight into the bottom of a bottle." He bit back what he really wanted to say – _but how would you know Harry, you weren't there. You ran away too._

"Yeah Johnny-boy. Easy to talk ill of the dead, when you could have done so much to help out."

"What like you did?" John could take no more. He was angry with himself for stooping to her level. He was angry at Harry for her selfish attention seeking. And he was angry at his dad for being a coward. He turned around, hugged his mum and ushered her into the waiting car.

-0-0-0-

Shortly after the funeral John and his mum moved to a smaller and cheaper house on the new housing estate. His mum continued in her job and seemed happy with her new life. She started making new friends and things began getting better.

John had aced his GCSE's and had started at sixth-form college. He still dreamt of becoming a doctor, and investigated ways to make this happen.

One day over the obligatory Sunday roast his mum suddenly set down her cutlery and looked at her son.

"John, I've noticed you haven't brought any girls home and you don't seem to have been on any dates. Erm, I don't mean to pry, but is everything OK?"

John was completely wrong-footed. All he could do was whine "Muummmm!" and try to focus on his lunch.

"It's just, if you're not sure or, even if you prefer, well, boys, you do know you can talk to me. I won't judge. I just want you to be happy."

John flushed pink from acute embarrassment and whined "Muuummmm!" again.

The matter was dropped and lunch continued.

That night John lay in his bed and thought about his love life or lack thereof. He had friends, both male and female and he had a great time being with them. He just wasn't interested in any of them, well not sexually anyway. Yes, he was still a virgin, but that didn't bother him. Some of his mates teased him that he was leaving it a bit late while they boasted of their own conquests. He preferred talking to girls, giving them his winning smile, listening to them and just making them feel special.

In truth he heartily disliked the way his male friends behaved around women. They treated the whole thing like a competition – how many girls they could pull and how many they could bed. Only a couple of his friends had partners, but even they were boorish when with their single friends.

John began to question what was wrong with him.

On his eighteenth birthday his 'mates' thought it would be a great laugh to take him to a local lap-dancing club, using false IDs to gain entry. John hated every minute from the loud music and the pulsating lights to the semi naked women pushing themselves into his friend's faces while they leered and groped.

He sat in a corner and got increasingly drunk on the pints and shots that kept being forced into his hand. Next thing he knew he was in a private room with his trousers and boxers round his ankles as a naked woman twice his age finished rolling a condom onto his semi erect cock before lowering herself onto him and pretending like he was the greatest lover ever.

As soon as John came back to his senses he tried to push the woman off of him. She realised what was happening as he rapidly became limp. Easing herself from her position straddling his hips she smirked "Don't worry love. I'll tell your mates I took care of you. I don't give refunds." and then disposed of the condom and tidied him up with practised hands before leading him from the room and back to his expectant and cheering mates. She winked lasciviously at the baying gang before sashaying away towards her next client.

His friends thought it was brilliant. They questioned him about what it was like and how he felt now he'd popped his cherry. John just felt sick to his stomach. A combination of alcohol and disgust made him head for the gents where he threw up.

Barry, a mouthy git who hung round with them but who John didn't like much, followed him into the loo. When John emerged from the cubicle looking pale and feverish Dave was waiting, leaning against the basins, arms crossed and a smirk on his face.

"Never pegged you for a shirt-lifter Johnny-boy. See it all now though. I suggest you stay well clear of me, cos I'm not having a fag like you touching me. An' if I catch you looking at me in the showers I'm gonna rearrange your pretty face." With that he left, after pushing John's ribs hard into the side of the basin where he was trying to rinse his face.

John just stared after him. He couldn't imagine what he had done to give the impression he was gay, not that being gay wasn't fine. It wasn't until the following day, when alcohol had cleared it's fog from his mind that he realised that it was probably Barry who was having the problem. He'd told John not to touch him but then proceeded to shove John causing his own groin to brush against John's buttocks. He'd told John not to look at him, but had made the effort to follow John into the gents, and he'd said John had a pretty face. John felt kind of sorry for Barry, that he couldn't accept who he was. But he was still a total arse and John steered well clear of him.

The encounter with the prostitute was John's next watershed. He finally faced his own sexuality and realised that he was different. He liked women and men, but was not sexually attracted to them. He liked the intimacy of talk, touch and to just bask in the glow of making someone else feel special, but didn't want to bed them. He didn't know what he was. Not gay, because he liked women, but not straight because he did like men. What was he? Did it matter?

He went to the library to try to find some source of information that would help, but there was virtually nothing. He did manage to find a small text referencing the Kinsey Scale. After much thought about his responses both to male and female friends and acquaintances he guessed he was about a 2 or a 3. It made him bi-sexual. But he wasn't actually interested in sex, just the companionship. What did that make him? And what would the neighbours think if they found out his mum had a lesbian daughter and a bi-sexual son? John decided, for the sake of his mum, to keep his discovery a secret.

In his final year at college he began to date.

It was as much for his mum as for himself. Dating made him seem normal, and all the girls he went out with spoke of him in glowing terms. He was such a gentleman and always made them feel like they were the only one in the room.

He only dated 'nice' girls and rarely dated anyone for longer than a few weeks. Enough to allow for the intimacy of cuddling, which he loved, but not long enough for them to question why he hadn't tried harder to get them into bed.

He found that he didn't much enjoy kissing them either, it was just too intimate. His first few dates, he'd done the 'normal' thing of chastely kissing the girl on the cheek at the end of the date. In each case the girl tried to take the kiss further. He really didn't like that, so contrived to only kiss the back of their hand whilst looking deeply into their eyes. This seemed to work like a charm.

His reputation with the ladies became legendary in that final year, and if he never spoke of his sexual exploits with the lads in his rugby team, well, let them assume that he was a gentleman and didn't give away a lady's secrets.

-0-0-0-

The next watershed came the summer after his A levels. He knew for certain he wanted to be a doctor, specifically a surgeon. He also knew that there was no way his mum could afford to pay towards him going to university let alone med school.

John had reviewed his options and found that the Army was the way forward. They would pay for his education and he was guaranteed a job at the end of it, admittedly in the RAMC, but that was fine. He was physically fit and enjoyed the thrill of a bit of danger. He filled in the paperwork and completed a medical. He just had to await his exam results and tell his mum.

She cried. Of course she cried. Her only son was putting himself in potential danger because she wasn't able to support him like a good parent should. He stroked her hand to re-assure her that he didn't see it like that. She was a brilliant mum and had done everything she could to hold it together so he had the chance to follow his dream. He was old enough to make his own decisions about his life.

"Come on Mum. It's not like surgeons are on the front line. If I do get deployed I'll be at base in the hospital, not out in the field getting shot at."

John's exam results were good, very good actually. Before he knew it he was packing his bags ready to leave to start his medical education at Queen Mary, University of London.

The prospect of being in the middle of London was exhilarating and that he would be at St Bartholomew's Hospital was a dream come true. He'd read that it had been a hospital and centre for medical teaching since the twelfth century. To actually be there was totally surreal.

Being away from home was hard. The workload was harder. He shared a pokey digs in Peckham with 5 other students – 2 women and 3 men.

Two of the blokes, Marcus and Andy, were total dicks who spent the entire time drinking and womanising. Luckily they kept most of their activities away from the flat so the worst they had to contend with was the loud and gruesome aftermaths of their partying. They'd tried to boast about their weekend spent with a couple of girls they'd picked up in a bar, but got short shrift from the other flatmates and so learned to keep their tales for their own mates. They'd decided that their other flatmates were all gay for not being interested in their exploits and because the girls had no interest in a quick shag.

Simon was very obviously gay. He minced around the flat and played the 'screaming queen' for all he was worth. John suspected it was all an act for their benefit. He had spotted him in a coffee bar near campus once with a slightly older man he was obviously very close to, possibly a partner. John was pleased that Simon seemed happy. It was fairly obvious that Bridget was either bi or a lesbian, while Mary seemed to be straight. Bridget and Mary shared a room (single beds) and became friends although John wasn't sure if it was as much to present a united front against Marcus and Andy as it was a genuine friendship.

The four of them all got along quite nicely and ignored the testosterone laden carrying on of 'the Wankers' as Marcus and Andy became known.

John quickly got back into the habit of dating, following the pattern that had worked so well for him at home. It didn't bother him that between studying, military training weekends and a part-time job to make ends meet, he rarely had time for dates. It actually suited his purposes because he obviously wasn't able to dedicate time to a relationship. One night stands, of a non-sexual nature, became the norm. Marcus and Andy in their usual insensitive way started calling him 'Shagger Watson' and assumed he was like them. He made it very clear to them that he had no interest in joining them for 'a few bevvies and exchanging war stories' as they so delicately put it.

He was dismayed to find that Bridget and Mary were beginning to avoid him. He suspected as a result of Marcus and Andy's innuendoes, so he decided to address the matter the next evening.

Marcus and Andy were out, probably at a pub watching the England v Ireland rugby international. It was John and Simon's turn to cook dinner. As they started to prepare the meal, John decided to ask Simon about his sexuality. John really hadn't progressed much further on analysing his own sexuality and he had questions.

"Simon, can I ask you about being, well, you know, gay?"

Simon stopped peeling the carrots and looked at him askance, trying to assess whether he was taking the piss, about to abuse him, or was genuinely interested.

"Why do you want to know? Did a bloke come on to you in the pub or something?"

"No. It's just, there's so little information about sexuality and what it all means. I just thought that, you know, being gay you might have a better idea."

"Oh, OK. Well ask your questions. I won't promise to know the answers or want to tell you about my sex life, but we'll see. Do you want to start by telling me about you so I know where you're coming from."

"Cheers mate. I should start by saying my older sister is a lesbian and, as far as I know, is in a long-term relationship. We don't talk much, she's a bit of a …"

"Bitch?"

"Yeah actually."

Simon snorted. "Yeah, I've got one of those too, except she's not a lesbian. But a cast iron bitch none the less."

John began to relax and, as the cooking progressed, Simon and John chatted.

Over the evening meal, Bridget and Mary sat on the opposite side of the table, coolly thanking him for cooking but keeping an icy distance.

Simon glanced between them, then decided to go in to bat for his new friend. "Come on sweeties, chill. John's not like 'the Wankers'. In fact he would quite like our help."

John wasn't sure about this. Asking Simon was one thing, but sharing personal information with two virtual strangers who regarded him with such suspicion was quite another. He glanced up in panic, prepared to dig himself out of the hole Simon had put him in, except Simon hadn't. Bridget and Mary were looking at him differently, with interest and compassion. Clearly they trusted Simon's judgement of John's character.

By the end of the meal the four had bonded. They agreed there was a serious lack of information about sexuality and it clearly wasn't as simple as gay, straight or bi-sexual. Bridget was quite clear that she preferred women, but that was as much about personality as gender or physical appearance. She occasionally had sex with men, but rarely found men who interested her, or who reciprocated her interest.

Simon was 100% homosexual and proud of it, which was no surprise. They were surprised to find he was in a long term relationship with his partner, Matt, who worked in the City as a trader. The only reason they weren't living together was because Matt hadn't come out to his family and feared what knowledge of his sexuality would do to his career in the testosterone fuelled world of the London trading floor. In the mid-nineties, it was still not unheard of for openly gay men to be ostracised or even beaten up and Matt didn't want to risk it.

Simon confessed he had once been on the receiving end of some 'queer bashing' and didn't blame Matt one bit. They had a lifestyle that suited them at the moment and they would review it once Simon had graduated.

Mary was the surprise. She said that she was mainly straight. She also identified herself as asexual.

"What, like snails?" John blurted out, before blushing horribly and apologising profusely.

"No, you dick." Mary smirked at John's embarrassment. "I'm not interested in sex. It doesn't stop me from being romantically interested in someone. I like the flirting, the conversation and the intimacy as much as anyone. I'm just not really interested in sexual intercourse."

"So you're celibate then."

"No, celibacy is more of a lifestyle choice, not an absence of interest. If you were to ask on the Kinsey scale I'm probably about a 2. I'm predominantly interested in men, but can be attracted to a woman. I have no interest in sexual intercourse or even … what's that adorable term they use in 'Rocky Horror'? Oh yeah, heavy petting. I like affection and closeness and just spending quality time with someone I find attractive and who wants to be with me."

John nodded. He couldn't believe that he was having this conversation, but also that he wasn't alone, or even particularly abnormal in his feelings.

"So, are you a virgin then?" Oh well done John, there goes your reputation as a gentleman!

"Actually, yes." Mary took it in her stride as a genuine enquiry.

Unfortunately, 'the Wankers' chose that moment to stagger through the door and catch the tail end of the conversation. "Who's a virgin?" slurred Andy, casting a lascivious eye over the group around the dining table.

John panicked, fearing he had exposed Mary to ridicule, but quick as you like Simon responded "No-one here, unless it's one of you two wankers which wouldn't surprise me the way you go on about it. Methinks she protests too much." He waved a hand in front of his face like a fan and fluttered his eyelashes at the beer soaked pair. "But we were actually talking about olive oil. Which was best for cooking and which for salad dressing, which is, of course, extra virgin."

At discussion of cooking, Marcus and Andy immediately lost interest in the conversation they had barged into, even the insult Simon had thrown at them, and headed toward the kitchen in search of more beer. The group relaxed as the two staggered away.

"Simon, you are brilliant!" John declared with relief. He'd have hated to be responsible for causing his flatmate's pain. "I guess this conversation will have to continue another day if you're up for it? But I really want to thank you for your openness. It's really helped me and I promise, nothing we have discussed tonight will ever leave this flat."

-0-0-0-

Uni progressed much as it had before. John found his free time growing more scarce as time rolled on and dating became a luxury. However, he found he was spending more time with Simon, Bridget and especially Mary. Increasingly he liked nothing better than curling up on the sofa with his flatmates, sharing a bottle of wine and watching a movie, or just chatting and gossiping. Often he had little energy for anything else, but these moments of intimacy with his friends kept him happy and focussed.

He'd come to the conclusion that he really didn't want to label himself. He was John Hamish Watson and he was comfortable with how he felt, thanks largely to the help and support of his friends and flatmates. Unlike Simon, he still chose to keep is private life private. He didn't want all and sundry knowing his business, and let the campus grapevine believe what they chose.

His relationship with Mary grew closer to the point that they described each other as best friends. They weren't in love, but were close enough to be treated as a couple by casual acquaintances.

They had long talks about what they wanted to do once they'd graduated and longer term. They expected to remain friends but didn't see their futures together. Of course, Mary knew full well that, upon graduation John was off to Sandhurst for officer training and then would be deployed as part of the RAMC, almost certainly as part of a trauma surgery unit.

Mary had decided that she wanted to make a difference, so was going to apply to Medecin Sans Frontieres. If accepted, she could be sent to almost anywhere in the world. She found the idea thrilling and John was delighted for her.

Graduation was bittersweet. It was the start of the next part of his life, but he was sad to lose the steady companionship of Bridget, Simon, his friends Mike Stamford and Phil Warren, and, especially, Mary.

* * *

**Glossary:**  
shirt-lifter - derogatory term for homosexual  
queer bashing - groups of men attacking and beating up usually lone homosexuals, or at least those they identified as homosexual  
popped your cherry - lost your virginity  
bevvies - drinks, usually beer or lager

The age of consent in the UK is 16.  
18 year olds may enter pubs and most licensed premises and can purchase alcohol, although some bars and clubs only allow over 21s


	2. Chapter 2

Life in the Army was, unsurprisingly, really tough but incredibly rewarding. John had always thought himself fit with the amount of sport he played, but this was nothing compared to the training the Army put him through. His body toned and became muscled in places he couldn't believe as he pushed himself hard through his training.

Being on the short side, and a doctor, he had initially been singled out by the sergeants and instructors as the weak link. Whenever there was a demonstration John was the guinea pig. Fed up with being the butt of everyone's jokes, John actively sought out the instructors and asked for extra training in his small amounts of free time. He was soon more than proficient in unarmed and close quarters combat, and was a crack shot with both pistol and rifle. This earned the respect of many of his fellow recruits, and he began to enjoy the new levels of camaraderie.

On their first evening out from base he joined with a group of mates heading into the bars of Camberley. They'd been training hard for weeks and all of them needed to blow off steam. Many were hoping for a few beers, possibly a curry, and with luck, pulling a girl.

John could cope with the first two, but he wasn't interested in trying to talk to inebriated girls in a noisy bar. By the third round, his mates had spotted a birthday party towards the back of the crowded bar and had descended upon the giggly women en masse to try their luck. John remained, perched on a bar stool sipping his lager, watching his mates drunken attempts with some amusement.

A sad and damp eyed brunette tapped him on the shoulder asking if the stool next to him was free, and, having wiggled up on to it, tried unsuccessfully to attract the attention of the harassed bar staff whilst dabbing at her eyes with a soggy tissue.

Turning to the obviously distressed woman, John handed her his hanky.

"Allow me." He gestured to the nearest barman to get his attention. "What would you like?"

"Whisky and ginger please. Err, thanks."

John placed the order then turned back to the lady.

"Tough night huh?"

"Yeah, something like that."

Her drink arrived and John paid as he asked "Do you want to talk about it? I'm a good listener."

She looked at him askance, before accepting the drink and deciding that perhaps she could do with talking to this kind eyed stranger.

"Yeah, actually. I was on a blind date set up by some so-called friends of mine. They told me he was charming and witty and would show me a wonderful evening. They were wrong. He had all the charm of a sewer. I bought a new dress and everything, and he took one look at me as I walked in and just let rip." New tears began to well and her chin trembled. "He said he couldn't believe his cousin had set him up with such a … such a … f-fat s-s-slut, and how he wasn't that d-desperate for a shag."

John was absolutely horrified. "The bastard! That was totally uncalled for. Nobody deserves to be spoken to like that." John leaned forward and gently touched her shaking shoulder. "You look lovely and I really like your dress. Did you have your hair done specially as well, because that style really suits you."

"Do you think so?"

"Yeah I really do. I'm John by the way, John Watson."

"Oh, hi. I'm Judy Lewis. You're, you're in the Army then."

John grinned. "Yep. What gave me away?"

"Oh, nothing really apart from the haircut. We get a lot of squaddies in here what with all the bases so it was a fairly safe guess." She dabbed her eyes again and then suddenly looked at him with suspicion. "You're not trying to get off with me are you, because I'm not that kind of girl you know."

John grinned again to allay her fears. "No, I'm not trying to get off with you. I'm just trying to cheer up a lovely young woman in distress who's been treated horribly by a scumbag who was never taught how to treat a lady."

At this her face brightened. "You … you think I'm lovely?"

"Of course."

By the time his mates were ready to roll back to base a few hours later, John was still cheerfully sitting at the bar with a smiling and happy Judy. They were both relatively sober having spent more time talking and laughing than drinking. John apologised to Judy that he had to go and escorted her outside to the cab rank to ensure she was safely deposited in a cab heading for home.

"Woah, Watson! You old smoothy. Can't believe the Midget had more luck pulling than we did. Maybe we should call you Martini. What's your secret mate?"

John gave a tight smile. "I behave like an officer and a gentleman. Maybe you should try it."

Laughter and pats on the back along with playful banter and mickey taking began John's new reputation as the man who could pull any woman, any time, any place, anywhere.

-0-0-0-

John loved Army life. He loved the camaraderie, and the physicality of it, the danger and using his skills to save lives, both military and civilian. In his time he served across Europe, Asia, Africa and the Middle East.

He proved to be a top flight trauma doctor and surgeon and skilful leader. His steady surgeon's hands and excellent eye/hand coordination made him a crack shot. His rare skillset put him in demand for deployment on special missions and a couple of sorties with black ops teams.

It was upon his return from a prolonged mission that he received a message from Harry. "Mum's dead. Cancer. You missed the funeral – Harry".

He tried calling Harry for more information and instead spoke to someone called Clara. Apparently Harry and Clara were now living together.

Clara explained that his mum had been feeling unwell for a few weeks before going to her GP. She'd been sent for tests which showed she had a particularly aggressive form of Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma. She'd been hospitalised immediately, but had deteriorated rapidly and was dead within the month.

"Why didn't Harry call me Clara? I could have got a chance to at least say goodbye. I might even have been able to have got compassionate leave."

"I don't know John. Harry said you wouldn't be bothered. She was always visiting your mum with flowers, and chatting to her about your dad and all the wonderful times you had when Harry was little."

"Right, so it was all about Harry again. Sorry Clara, I shouldn't have said that. Let Harry know I got her message. I hope you and she are happy. I'll try to visit next time I'm in the UK."

"Bye John. It was nice to finally talk to you."

Six months later, John received a package from Clara containing a small wedding cake box embossed Harriet Watson and Clara Wilson. Harry hadn't even told him she was getting married. He wondered if his family were surprised that he wasn't there to give his sister away, and hadn't even sent a card.

Of course amongst the camaraderie and buzz there were horrors too. Hours of surgery trying to sew young men and women back together, awash in blood and gore. Casualties from land mines, IEDs, sniper fire and even victims of genocide. The civilians were the worst, especially the children who had been caught up in conflicts not of their making. These were the stuff of nightmares that haunted the quiet moments – the boredom between missions and the hours when sleep was an elusive luxury.

And in between these moments, his reputation with the ladies continued. His nickname had changed from Martini to Three Continents Watson due to his perceived ability to pick up the most unapproachable of women. His colleagues marvelled that he didn't seem to have a 'type', not race, creed, hair colour, height or body size – John Watson didn't seem to mind. And by the end of the evening he always seemed to have the focus of his attention delightedly hanging on his every word.

That these 'conquests' never ended in sex, but in delightful companionship was something that never occurred to his colleagues. And John wasn't going to correct them.

After nearly ten years this all came to an abrupt halt with a sniper's bullet and "Please God, let me live."

-0-0-0-

He didn't know what to do.

He was desperate for human contact but he was isolated and alone in a tiny flat and emotionally unable to re-connect with 'normal' people. His friends were all in the Army.

His sister was hardly civil when he arrived on her doorstep in desperate need of any kind of connection. She was badly hung over and made it clear she wanted him gone, her sisterly duty done when she thrust her old mobile phone and charger into his hand.

"Take this. It's from that bitch. She's left me, before you ask. Said I drank too much. Good riddance, cheating slag. It's unlocked, so you should be able to pick up one of those sim only contracts from somewhere. Don't bother calling." Before shutting the door in his face.

Meeting Mike Stamford in the park started out as a trial. Just trying to talk to someone who didn't know what he had seen and experienced. How could Mike understand?

But going to Bart's and then meeting Sherlock Holmes. Suddenly his life began again.

He thought he'd blown it that first evening at Angelo's.

"So you're single then. Like me." Yes, if John had to take a guess he would say Sherlock was very much like him. He guessed from his answers that he probably preferred men over women, but his obvious disdain for being touched and apparent disinterest in relationships suggested that Sherlock probably was either celibate or asexual.

"I think I should let you know that I consider myself married to my work."

John wasn't lying when he said that was all fine, although he was surprised that Sherlock had misconstrued his less than subtle questioning as a come on. Perhaps Sherlock wasn't quite as infallible as he liked to think.

Living with Sherlock initially proved a struggle. He had no regard for John's personal space or property, but only seemed to allow touch when he asked John to get his mobile phone out of his pocket. John wondered if this was some sort of experiment to find out John's limits, or whether that was as much physical contact Sherlock would allow himself.

Over the first few months, John found himself becoming increasingly frustrated. He could feel he was missing something, but he didn't quite know what. He wondered whether, since returning from Afghanistan, his romantic requirements had perhaps changed.

He downloaded various types of porn onto his laptop to make sure, but as he expected, they still did nothing for him. So he was probably still largely asexual. But some part of what he needed to feel fulfilled had changed. At that moment Sherlock bellowed up the stairs that they had a case and they had to go. He made a mental note to clear his browser history and delete the porn he had downloaded before Sherlock found it.

Being grabbed by the face during the Blind Banker case was perhaps the most physical contact he'd had with Sherlock and, despite the discomfort at the time, the memory of it felt good.

Unfortunately he hadn't been quick enough clearing off his laptop and Sherlock had drawn his own, erroneous, conclusions about John's sexual proclivities. John shouting at him that he was trying to get off with Sarah Sawyer whilst at the Chinese circus really hadn't helped his cause, but then John figured if he really wanted to know Sherlock could always just ask him.

He wondered why, as Sherlock held scientific principles and experimentation in such high esteem, he never bothered to confirm his deductions about John. After all, he himself said that he always missed something. But then again, Sherlock was a colossal dick and would hate to be proved wrong.

John enjoyed dating Sarah and was happy to sleep on her sofa after a night snuggling. Much as he enjoyed Baker Street and running around London with Sherlock, he could do without the screaming violin in the early hours.

He wondered if sleeping was the thing that was causing his disquiet. After all, the nightmares and PTSD symptoms were the major change since his return to the UK along with his attempts to re-integrate into civilian life. Maybe he needed the comfort of the proximity of a warm body while he was sleeping.

He asked Sarah if, next time he stayed over he might, perhaps, sleep in her bed. If there was a next time of course. She was beginning to realise that they were unlikely to have sex, and he would probably have to come clean soon. He wasn't sure if she would want to still see him once she knew.

Then the bomb went off in Baker Street.

And then Moriarty wrapped him in a semtex vest.

The look of devastated betrayal and then absolute horror of Sherlock's face before he got control of his emotions nearly tore the heart out of John. Months later when he thought back on those moments he knew with total certainty that Sherlock was no fake. If any of his doubters had seen his face at that moment, they would know he would never have contrived John's predicament.

When Sherlock tore the vest from John's body, it was the most physical contact they'd ever had. No wonder John's legs went weak not just with the relief of losing the bomb wrapped around him, but also the touch of the man rapidly becoming the centre of his world.

Time rolled on and John continued to date. Working together to chase down criminals, and the brief touches of hands and shoulders between him and Sherlock, whilst wonderful were insufficient for John's needs. He didn't mind that the relationships with his girlfriends lasted at most a few weeks, but he would have preferred to have least got through some of the meals he paid for and had a chance for a degree of intimacy before Sherlock summoned him away.

He loved the companionship with Sherlock. The running around London and solving cases together fed not just his inner adrenalin junky, but also some of his craving for intimacy. Sherlock also seemed to have let down some of his barriers. He had begun to touch John more. A hand on a shoulder, the gentle touch of fingers whilst passing a mug or phone, helping each other on with coats and scarves. John revelled in Sherlock's touch.

One evening, on the sofa whilst John watched a documentary on telly, Sherlock's head suddenly appeared in John's lap.

"Bored" moaned the prostrated Sherlock as he lay on the sofa, feet propped up on the arm.

Without taking his eyes from the documentary John lightly twirled a finger in Sherlock's hair to gauge his reaction (much as he suspected Sherlock was doing to him by resting his head on John's thigh). Sherlock made no comment about John's touch, but his shoulders relaxed. John took this as acceptance and, as the documentary continued, he gently carded his fingers through the dark curls in his lap. By the end of the documentary and the subsequent chat show, Sherlock was snoring softly with a gentle smile on his face.

God, John loved this man.

-0-0-0-

John squared his shoulders, turned and marched after Mrs Hudson.

He had reached another watershed when he watched his best friend fall from the roof. He had been buried a week ago, and this was the first time John had been able to set foot in the cemetery.

They'd never discussed what they meant to each other. Most outsiders would say it was obvious, but for them maybe it wasn't so clear. John felt the loss of his friend as well as the loss of what might have been.

As he posted his final message on his blog, he noticed one of the last comments from M. Morstan. "Oh John, I'm so sorry. If you want to meet I'll be at Claridges, tomorrow, 3pm."

Mary.

If it had been anyone else, John would have ignored the message. But it was Mary and, at the moment, he needed to talk to someone he trusted. After all, there had been so little trust in his life during the last few weeks.

Mary looked wonderful. She already had a table and had ordered afternoon tea for two.

"I'm really not hungry."

"Rubbish. I'm a doctor and you need to eat." John nearly cried at the words he'd so often said to Sher… him.

Mary poured tea for them both.

"So. I would ask how you are, but I think that's fairly obvious. I've been reading your blog for the last year so I understand a lot of what has been going on. I know why you left the Army and how you ended up chasing criminals, so there's no need to tell me any of this. How about I tell you what I've been up to for the last decade or so and we'll take it from there."

She placed the tea cup next to his hand which was gripping the side of the table like grim death. Gently she lay her palm over the back of his hand for just a moment before sitting back in her seat with her own cup of tea.

John smiled at her weakly, grateful for the reassurance and that she wasn't going to interrogate him over recent events as so many others were wont to do.

"As you know, I joined Medecin Sans Frontieres and after some initial training I was sent to Rwanda …"

Mary had spent five years travelling the globe to places of disaster and distress – wherever those in need required medical aid. When not dealing with the horrors of human misery she was continuing her training, specialising in tropical medicine. A life-threatening case of malaria ended her globe-trotting and she settled in to a post at the Australian Institute of Tropical Health and Medicine at James Cook University where she gained her Professorship.

News of her father's battle with cancer had prompted her to return to the UK where she was now teaching at the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine.

By this time, the tables were being cleared around them and, loath to outstay there welcome, John suggested they make their way to Baker Street. If nothing else, they could continue their conversation in private and allay the fears Mrs Hudson was no doubt having.

They continued to talk into the early hours. Tears were shed, Indian takeaway was ordered and, mostly, eaten. In the end they were leaning against each other on the sofa, both physically and emotionally exhausted.

At no point had Mary asked anything about Sherlock or the events of the preceding weeks. What little that had been said had come from John alone.

"It's a bit late for a taxi. I didn't even ask where you were staying. Do you want to crash here? I can quickly change the bed clothes and you can have my bed while I take the sofa. I'm sure I've got a t-shirt and a spare toothbrush you can use."

"That sounds like a plan. Come on, I'll help you change the bed."

And that was how Mary ended up staying the night and leaving after breakfast.

The next evening, John arrived at Mary's flat in Bayswater, overnight bag in hand, as arranged. They had a plan and it was too risky to proceed in Baker Street for fear of being overheard by either Mycroft, or Moriarty.

-0-0-0-

"I know this is going to be painful, but I need you to take me through it. Everything you can remember, discussions, actions even impressions and emotions, from the time of the trial through to the end. I'll take notes. If you can't remember, don't push it. We can fill in the blanks later. And if you need a rest just say. I know this is going to be difficult, but you need to know what really happened."

"Yeah I do. None of it makes sense at the moment. Sherlock never gave a flying fuck about what people thought of him or his reputation. All he cared about was the work and doing the best he could to solve the puzzle. That's what he did best – solving puzzles. Dissecting them until everything was clear. Moriarty is the one who creates puzzles. They could never have worked together. They were quite literally polar opposites. Sherlock lived to solve crimes and Moriarty lives to create them without a care for who gets hurt in the process."

"So this whole Richard Brook thing?"

"Just another one of Moriarty's smoke screens. People forget. I was there. Moriarty strapped a bomb to me. I saw the look of betrayal when I stepped out and had to imply I was Moriarty and for a second Sherlock believed the lie. I saw the shock and fear on Sherlock's face when he saw the bomb. If Sherlock had created Moriarty by hiring Richard Brook, none of that would have happened, because there would have been no need for any of it. After all, who was there to witness it except me and it was quite clear that Moriarty never meant for me to leave that pool alive. I tell you this not because I've ever doubted Sherlock, but so you can understand and hopefully believe in him too."

"John, I trust your judgement. If you say Moriarty is real then that's good enough for me. Now. Let's get cracking if you're up for it."

"I am. I'm so bloody angry at Moriarty, I just want to track him down and tear his heart out."

And so they worked. It took all weekend to get all the facts down, going through John's recollections again and again, adding more detail as his memories became clearer. Repeating the facts over and over helped to lift some of the emotion attached to the memories allowing more detail to surface.

"A magic trick." Are you sure he said 'It's a magic trick.'?"

"Quite sure. Which is odd really as Sherlock had no time for magic. He called it 'misdirection and trickery for the diversion of the stupid' which I always thought was a bit harsh for a bit of entertainment."

Mary's face suddenly lit up. "John, that's it! The missing piece. We're certain that Sherlock was coerced into jumping, probably by Moriarty's snipers. We know he had one on Mrs Hudson – the workman – and he almost certainly had one on you."

"The cyclist? No he would have killed me then. It must have been someone else. Probably Mrs Hudson's workman if I had stayed at Baker Street, and someone positioned at Bart's opposite the roof-top! Oh God, of course. There had to be someone to call off the snipers if Sherlock jumped. But why wouldn't Moriarty abort the mission himself? And if Moriarty why didn't Sherlock just force him to call them off? … Because Moriarty couldn't be forced. Because he was incapacitated, no Sherlock would have tried to revive him. Something else, what, why, because … because Moriarty was DEAD!"

"Dead? What, you mean Sherlock killed him?"

"No, Sherlock was no murderer. He probably wasn't even armed. I can't say the same for Moriarty though. Maybe it was accidental, they struggled for a gun. Either that or Moriarty shot himself to prevent calling off the snipers. The final blow to show Sherlock he had lost and to remove any chance of him saving us. Moriarty must have contrived it that either Sherlock let us die and faced arrest, or he jumped. Sherlock wouldn't have cared that the papers called him a fake. He could have proved them wrong in two minutes if he wanted to. He would only have jumped to save me and Mrs Hudson. But why did he make me listen to all that rubbish in his note and why did he make me watch?"

"Oh John, it's obvious. To protect you. If he could stop you believing in him and could get you to walk away, to start a new life elsewhere you might cease to be a target. You've already said that you think Moriarty had you bugged."

"Oh jeez. Sherlock must have feared that the phone conversation was somehow being tapped."

"It was a magic trick. He told you to stay in a specific position where you could see him, just like magicians do with a magic trick so the audience can't see what's really happening."

"But why tell me it was a magic trick if I have to watch him … die anyway? Unless I didn't watch him die! Oh God Mary, what if he didn't plan on dying, just making us think he did. Give me those notes. OK, he spent a long while talking to Molly, and his attitude to her had changed on that last day. Normally he was so dismissive and, to be honest, rude. But that last day, he was kind. Almost as though they were friends. And the ball in the lab. He never played with a ball. A gun or knives, absolutely. The walls at Baker Street will attest to that. But I never once saw him play with a ball, the noise alone would have been a distraction. And where did he even get it in a hospital lab, yet he sat there for ages throwing this little ball against the wall."

"John, you do know that you can temporarily stop the radial pulse by the application of a hard object, such as a small ball under …"

"Oh my God! He tricked me! And Molly helped him!" John looked angry. "I'll bloody kill him."

Mary grinned and grabbed the wrists of the man angrily pacing across her living room. She smiled as she held him steady and looked into his eyes. "But John, you berk, he's alive."

John paused for a minute before his face lit up. "Yeah, he is isn't he." And he kissed her.

Not a long or passionate kiss, because that wasn't who they were, but none the less, a kiss full of meaning.

Mary smiled and led John back to the sofa.

"So, what do we do? It's not like you can run to the police or papers, and if, as you suspect, Moriarty killed himself he would no doubt have left instructions for his subordinates to continue his work. If he even suspected that his death would end all his plots and plans he surely would not have taken that risk?"

"No, so, we have to assume that Mrs Hudson and myself are still targets, if Sherlock ever shows up alive, and it's also a safe bet that Sherlock is doing something to protect us, probably going after the snipers and key people in Moriarty's empire, bloody idiot. So I have to keep up the grieving flatmate act. Which won't be too hard in some respects cos I do miss the git. I'll just have to make sure that, if I smile I then look sad, as though I'm reminiscing. I'll have to get Mycroft to do a thorough sweep of the flat, make sure Moriarty hasn't left any little gifts behind. Shit, I wonder if Mycroft knows? Oh, he must do, mustn't he. I can't see Sherlock being too happy to ask him for help, but if he is going after Moriarty's organisation he would need Mycroft's help to do it. I'm going to have to talk to him."

"This Mycroft sounds rather scary."

"He tries to be, and likes to think he is, but he really cared … cares for Sherlock in his fucked up Holmesian way. Bugger, I'm going to have to keep an eye on my tenses. I wonder if anyone else was a target other than me and Mrs Hudson? I wouldn't want to accidently put someone else in danger."

"Well who else is there. Molly or Mycroft?"

"No, I don't think dear Jim would ever have considered Molly, especially how Sherlock usually treated her. No Molly would have been overlooked as normal, luckily for her. And it was well known that Sherlock and Mycroft don't get on. Their animosity is almost legendary. And Mycroft is pretty much untouchable although it would have thrilled Moriarty to claim Mycroft's scalp. No, if he was going after Mycroft it would have been with something much more elaborate."

"Is there anyone else? Family or perhaps someone at the Yard?"

"I've only ever heard mention of Mummy and I suspect Mycroft has her well protected. Shit, Lestrade! If Moriarty was going to go after anyone at the Yard it would be Lestrade. He's known Sherlock for years, got him off drugs and into crime solving. In fact before me, Lestrade was the closest thing Sherlock had to a friend. When I talk to Mycroft I'm going to have to make sure he's protecting Lestrade too."

"Well OK. Do you feel a bit better now you've worked this out? Now you know that you didn't let him down and that you did exactly what he needed you to do?"

"Yeah, yeah, I do. Thanks Mary. You've been brilliant. I'll have to arrange to see Mycroft at the Diogenes Club. That's probably the only secure location. In the meantime, we need to burn these notes. I can't risk this getting in to the wrong hands and compromising Sherlock. And I guess we'll have to keep seeing each other for the next few weeks to keep up the illusion we're dating. After all, you've spent the night with me and I've stayed over here. We can't have people thinking you're anything other than a rebound shag … sorry. But I won't have you made a target by one of Moriarty's henchmen."

Mary looked a little sad, then a little coy. "John, I appreciate that you don't want me dragged into this, but, if it's alright with you, I really don't mind the dating part. It's not like I've not lived in danger before, and I've really enjoyed this time we've spent together. So if you'd like to take me out to dinner on Friday evening I am most definitely available."

John smiled. "Friday? Why not, and I know a great Chinese. Did you know you can always tell a good Chinese restaurant by the bottom third of the door handle?"

* * *

**Glossary:**  
hanky - handkerchief  
squaddies - low ranking soldiers, usually Privates  
Martini - a brand of alcohol (vermouth). A popular series of adverts in the 70's and 80's used the tag line "any time, any place, anywhere, that's Martini." It became so well known it slipped into common parlance in the UK and has long outlived the adverts.


	3. Chapter 3

Twenty eight months. Twenty eight tortuous months of watching every word he uttered about Sherlock. Always making sure that he gave nothing away. No indication that his best friend was alive.

Two months after the Fall, and in need of an income, John had applied for, and to his great surprise, been offered a position in University College London Hospital A&E. Apparently his experience in battlefield triage and trauma surgery was invaluable. He suspected Mycroft had something to do with his appointment, but didn't care to pry too deeply. He not only carried out shifts in A&E which fed his inner adrenaline junkie, he also trained junior doctors, nurses and even paramedics in the emergency treatment of wounds inflicted by guns, blades and even explosives. Whilst his shifts were often exhausting, the hectic pace kept his mind from dwelling on where Sherlock was, what he was doing, whether he was eating, if he was still alive.

Initially he avoided Molly Hooper like the plague, afraid that he would reveal her part in the charade and put her in danger. Staying away from Barts was no great hardship as the hospital stll loomed large in his nightmares. He had to face her though when she began consulting for the UCLH Pathology Department, bumping into her one day in the canteen. He'd forgotten how much fun coffee and a gossip with Molly could be. A natter over coffee in the canteen became one of the highlights of his day whenever Molly was over.

His life became more balanced as he began reconnecting with the normal world even as his fear of giving some clue away abated. Instead of just working and shopping he started rebuilding his social life. Drinks with colleagues, coffee with Mike Stamford, and the occasional beer with Greg Lestrade. And throughout everything he continued to see Mary.

John proposed on a warm July evening, next to the statue of Peter Pan in Hyde Park. They debated moving into her Bayswater flat, or looking for a new home somewhere convenient for both of them.

In the end, they decided to move into Baker Street, with Mycroft's approval.

Mycroft was persuaded to carry out the renovations to make Flat C habitable. John said it was to provide workspace and storage for Mary, but really it was being prepared for Sherlock's return, to be his laboratory, office and work area (sulking room).

It wasn't as if John and Mary were planning to have children. Both being asexual, that was never something either of them wanted, so there was no need for any additional bedrooms.

As the second anniversary of the Fall drew near, Mycroft invited John to the Diogenes Club for a chat.

"John, now is the time to commence the rehabilitation of my brother's reputation. As you are aware New Scotland Yard have already released the results of their review of Sherlock's involvement is cases exonerating him of any wrong-doing. I have further evidence, recordings and surveillance footage that show that Sherlock was not complicit in Moriarty's schemes. It will also prove conclusively that Moriarty was real." John visibly tensed. "I think, before I release this evidence, you should see it. I do not want you to be shocked when it becomes public."

"That would be … good. Do you want me to be part of the release?"

"Much as I would like your support, I think, for your own safety, it would be best to stay as far away from this as possible until a later date. I will have a brief statement prepared on your behalf should the media demand it. Perhaps 'He was my friend and I have always believed in him'." As John nodded his assent, Mycroft continued "If you agree, I will allocate security details for Mrs Hudson, yourself and Mary to ensure that there is no adverse reaction from either the media or the criminal community. We do not want Sherlock's sacrifice to be for nought."

"No, quite. I take it that you are holding me in reserve until the, err end game."

"Yes, that would be the plan. And John, please take these with you. It is a special licence allowing you to carry and discharge that firearm" Mycroft gestured to the small case "in defence of yourself and members of the public. I know that you are fully trained, but should you feel the need for practice, we have a firing range here at the Club. Simply call my office to arrange an appointment or for additional ammunition. While you are here you will find that additional ammunition will not be an issue. Simply ask any footman."

"Thanks Mycroft. I hope it doesn't come to it, but it makes me feel better to be prepared. And yeah, a bit of a practice would be useful."

"Good. Thank you for coming. However, I believe that your delightful fiancée is awaiting you at The Criterion. As you are available tomorrow I have scheduled your use of the firing range after you have reviewed the evidence. I fear you may require a vent for your … emotions. If you would like to leave your weapon here for tonight, you can take it with you tomorrow. In the meanwhile, I have a car waiting to convey you to afternoon tea."

"Thanks Mycroft. I'll see you tomorrow."

-0-0-0-

The media indeed went mad when Mycroft's evidence was released.

For a man who so despised sentiment he was right that John was more than a little affected by the images of Sherlock.

Sherlock's meeting with Moriarty at Baker Street had him filled with rage, and the sound and images of the final confrontation on the rooftop at Bart's reduced him to angry tears (Mycroft confirmed, from a surveillance camera planted by Sherlock). If Moriarty wasn't already dead by his own hand, John would have cheerfully done the job for him. The firing range took a hammering and the staff had to bring him three extra boxes of ammunition, such was his ire.

To avoid the worst of the media feeding frenzy, Mycroft arranged holidays for Mrs Hudson (with her sister to Madeira) and for John and Mary near Meiringen in Switzerland. Upon their returns to the UK, they were met by chauffeured cars that whisked them to a secure Baker Street.

John continued to keep his head down. He attended his shifts in UCLH A&E and tried not to notice his minders. For their own safety, Mycroft had made sure that both John and Mary were familiar with the security team personnel so that they knew exactly who they could turn to if the need arose.

A couple of enterprising journalists tried to get stories by sustaining minor injuries and sitting in A&E for hours, but the triage nurses soon spotted them and ensured they were kept waiting before being sent to junior doctors – all hospital staff had been warned that anyone who gossiped about John Watson to anyone, even to friends or family, could expect swift discipline. John was so well liked by staff and colleagues that those who were in a position to provide meaningful information were loath to do so. In fact they were quite protective of the charming man.

On their next blokes' night, Greg let John know how the news had been taken at the Yard.

"It was amazing how fast most of them changed their tune. Of course we knew he hadn't been fabricating crimes ages ago when that review was completed. Bloody good job too otherwise I'd have been retired by now, although I think Mycroft was protecting my position as much as he could. Of course once the evidence was released you've never seen so many u-turns and knowing nods. Everyone, almost without exception absolutely knew all along that he was a good guy and that Moriarty was real. Bloody hypocrites. I'll give Dimmock his due, he backed Sherlock pretty much from the start. Even Sally looked contrite. Biggest laugh was Anderson. He came up to me the other day and whispered 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes'. I told him, doesn't bloody bring him back to life though does it. God I miss that man. He was a pain in the arse, but jeez did he work a crime scene."

"I know. That first time."

"The Study In Pink."

"Yep. He was incredible."

"I believe you mean fantastic." Greg smirked.

"Yeah, as you so regularly remind me. But he was. I mean you'd seen him work before, but I'd never even been to a crime scene. And he was, absolutely amazing. And the thing is he did it every single time. Even walking down the street or in a restaurant. You lot never saw but he just can't switch it off, so we made it into a game, just to stop him from going mad. You probably don't realise what it's like for him. He sees and feels everything all the time. His brain is constantly receiving and processing data about everything, not just what he's focussing on but literally everything going on around him. He wasn't joking when he told Anderson his face was putting him off. His puffing, sneers and muttering quite literally were. It's why he originally turned to drugs. He found cocaine helped calm his brain and give him focus. It was never about the high, and always about managing his mind."

"Christ, I never knew that. I just assumed he was being an arse or trying to piss off Mycroft. That explains why he was still insisting on using them on and off until barely a year before he met you."

"You have no idea. He can get bored thirty minutes after finishing a case. I've never worked out the whole sleeping and eating thing though. I think it may well have more to do with childhood trauma, or maybe wanting to control all aspects of his body. I can imagine, with his brain, dreaming must be terrifying. Better to drive himself to the point of exhaustion and not dream at all."

Greg leaned closer to John's ear feigning a drunken conspiratorial whisper. "John mate. You do realise you've started talking about him in the present tense."

"Shit. I'd better stop that. No more beer for me tonight then. Thanks mate."

"I'm not going to even think about the implications of that. But if you need me, I'm there for you and anyone else that may need my help."

"Cheers mate. I'll keep that in mind."

That night Mary and John cuddled together on the sofa.

"I hope this is over soon. I just hope that he's still OK. I don't know if Mycroft would tell me if anything had happened."

"You still love him don't you."

"Of course Mary. I don't think that will ever change. He is quite extraordinary, and I hope he will still need me. But don't think that changes how I feel about you. I am so lucky to have had the opportunity to love two amazing people. When I got back from Afghanistan I felt so alone and useless. I'd lost my family, my comrades and my career. I even had that bloody limp. I was so low I was close to ending it all. Sherlock saved me in his own weird way. He gave me a home, a life and a purpose. Then I thought I'd lost it all again. That somehow I'd failed him. Those days between the Fall and seeing your message, I was in a very dark place. And it was worse than after Afghanistan because I knew I'd lost even more. Then I saw your message. You saved me again." He squeezed her hand and nuzzled into her neck. Mary sighed contentedly. "You're still OK with this? After all it's all getting more real now."

"I'm still OK with it. We'll have to see how it goes when everything's resolved. Who knows how we'll get along."

"Yeah. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried. God knows what he's been through and what state he'll be in. He may not even want to be with us. I can only hope it'll work out OK and we can just be there for him."

"We'll be there one way or another, don't you worry."

"You're wonderful, you know that. Anyway, it's late and I'm on early shift tomorrow. Bed?"

"Hmmm, more snuggling. Lovely."

-0-0-0-

John knew something was wrong. He could feel it in his gut, that knotting he always got before the shit hit the fan.

He was walking to work as per normal. Only two miles, a gentle stroll and early enough to avoid the worst of the commuter crowds. He'd just picked up his regular order from the nearby coffee shop and was drawing close to the staff entrance when he realised what had been niggling him – his usual security detail were missing. Glancing round he spotted a man across the street. He had all the ear marks of one of his security team except John didn't recognize him.

He called Mycroft.

"Hi Mycroft. Is everything OK? My team seem to have disappeared and I have a new face."

"That's not good. Get inside immediately and notify hospital security. Kelly and Carter are in your area. I'll get them to you urgently. Don't do anything brave John."

John chuckled, making the conversation look normal to his watcher as he swiped his ID card, entered his security code and walked through the secure entrance. "I think you mean stupid. No, I won't. I'm in the hospital now. I'll notify security immediately."

"Good. Kelly and Carter are on their way ETA five minutes. They'll meet you in your office. Go straight there."

"OK. Bye"

John hung up, then dialled the number for hospital security instructing them to enact the special protocol Mycroft had in place for his protection, along with his location and destination. He then continued towards his office.

He heard the click of the store room door opening behind him, and had no time to react before feeling the sting of a needle in his neck. He heard a loud buzzing as he staggered into the wall, then everything went black.

Mycroft was alerted immediately, and the hospital was on lockdown within minutes, but it was too late. John's security detail were found drugged by tranquilizer darts and stashed in an alley behind Angelo's. Kelly and Carter had raised John's disappearance as soon as they arrived at his office to be greeted by hospital security. Kelly called Mycroft while Carter, accompanied by a security guard, retraced John's route. It didn't take long to find the pool of spilled coffee - the only evidence of John's abduction that couldn't be cleaned away.

Marks of a trolley through the spill showed John must have been wheeled away, probably disguised as a patient.

That meant either the ambulance entrance or the morgue were their points of exit. No-one had been wheeled out of the ambulance entrance on a trolley, but Molly, who was fortunately on-site that day, reported that a mortuary had just collected two bodies for embalming. A call to the mortuary revealed they had only just opened and that their van was not due to collect the bodies until later that morning. Two bodies were soon located dumped into a store room. Obviously John had been taken out that way.

CCTV showed the mortuary van entering a nearby multi-storey car park. The van was found, empty, on the top floor. The floor was coned off to prevent motorists from using it and giving the kidnappers privacy to transfer John to another vehicle.

A lack of CCTV inside the car park due to a temporary glitch in the security system meant it would take a massive amount of investigation to track down all the vehicles leaving the car park at that time. There was no way the specific vehicle could be identified and tracked before they were well clear of the area, even in the heavy London traffic.

Lestrade and his team had been drafted in to aid Mycroft's teams as soon as John's kidnapping was reported, making it an official police investigation, even if the bulk of the work was being carried out by Mycroft's people. Lestrade swiftly identified the complicity of one the security staff at the car park who had been paid to cone off the floor and switch off the CCTV. The guard had no information to offer other than he'd been approached by a tall man in dark glasses and a baseball cap in the pub.

Mycroft provided Lestrade with a top forensic team who began work on the hospital store room and the van and car park.

"So Mycroft, you don't trust Anderson either."

"Gregory, I may disagree with my brother on many things, but on this point he was quite correct. I will not trust that man's questionable abilities with John's life."

"Point taken. Do you have any leads cos we've got nothing. They were obviously professionals, and they've made sure they've left no forensic evidence. The best we have are the descriptions from Molly Hooper."

Mycroft raised a questioning eyebrow. He hadn't known the identity of the witness at the morgue.

"She was in early preparing for one of her Pathology classes." Greg felt a brief delight at having surprised a Holmes, a feeling he hadn't had in over two long years. He couldn't relish the moment though, with John's life in danger.

It was then that Lestrade's mobile rang.

"Greg, it's Molly. I've just thought. The mortuary rep had to sign for the bodies. He couldn't wear gloves for that without raising suspicion. He touched the pen and the clipboard. I've bagged both if you can get someone down here. I'll put them somewhere secure just in case."

"Molly you're incredible. I'll come myself. Give me ten minutes."

He hung up and turned to Mycroft. "Molly may have some evidence. I'm going to pick it up now."

"I'll accompany you. If she has something that may identify these kidnappers I want it secure as soon as possible."

Molly was right. There were prints. The ones on the pen were false and came back to a man who had died nearly five years before, however the prints on the clipboard belonged to a former sergeant in the SAS.

Philip Baker had been dishonourably discharged six years previously. He returned to the UK on a military transport, packed his possessions and then disappeared.

The fake fingerprints also belonged to a former soldier who had died in Afghanistan. His records showed that he was fatally injured by a sniper and died of complications following surgery shortly after arriving in Intensive Care. His surgeon was Captain John H. Watson.

Someone was sending a message.

Mycroft reviewed Sgt Baker's military record including his redacted mission reports. One name appeared with ominous frequency – disgraced Colonel Sebastian Moran.

Mycroft immediately sent a text to a secure number 'Moran has John. What do you need?'

'Everything you have. I'll be at Location Three in ten minutes. Be ready. And secure occupants of Baker Street.'

'Already done. I'll bring Lestrade.'

'Good. I'll need him. Make sure he's prepared.'

As Mycroft tucked away his phone, Greg turned to face him. "OK Mycroft, what now?"

"Now we get in my car and drive to a secure location."

"Mycroft, you're not pulling me off of this. John is my friend and I need to find him."

"Get in the car Gregory and all will be made clear."

They climbed into the black Bentley that had just pulled up at the curb. Mycroft asked his driver to activate the privacy protocols and drive to Location Three, then he sat back in his seat and made himself comfortable as the screen raised, isolating the rear of the car.

"Good, we are now secure and can talk without fear of unwanted eavesdroppers. Sit back Gregory, we have a twenty minute journey ahead of us and we have much to discuss."

Lestrade looked confused, but sat back and made himself as comfortable as possible given the situation.

"First, I should tell you that Sherlock is alive." Mycroft paused for the news to sink in. He was expecting shock and disbelief. He got raised eyebrows and a look of 'yeah, and?'.

"You knew? How?"

"I got the hint from John. And don't blame him for this. He kept the act up for over two years and would never have done anything to give Sherlock away. He slipped once, relaxing with his friend in the pub after a few beers while we reminisced about the mad bugger. All he did was let a few tenses slip. It's only because I know him so well that I picked up on it."

"Alright. Well as you know, you were one of Moriarty's targets. Which I think is part of the reason Sherlock wants you involved, so we can keep an eye on you. I'm quite sure that you would not stay put if we sequestered you in a safe house."

"You're damn right."

"As we suspected."

"So Sherlock. What's he been up to these two years? I assume he's not been sitting on a beach catching the rays."

"No, quite. He has actually been working to dismantle Moriarty's empire in order to protect you, Mrs Hudson and John. He realised that, if Moriarty was prepared to end his own life to ensure Sherlock jumped, he would certainly have made provision for his life's work to continue – his legacy if you will. With Sherlock dead there would be no-one to threaten his empire. He knew that it would be of no interest to me, as I had already had extensive meetings with him."

"Wait, you had meetings with him? Like, negotiations?"

"Precisely. Moriarty thought he was negotiating to secure my disinterest in his continued activities while he learned valuable information to use against Sherlock. He believed the animosity between us, which ensured that Sherlock was the primary target, allowing me to make preparations. We suspected that John may also be a target. He had been previously and it was not unreasonable to believe Moriarty would not hesitate to use John as leverage again. John was under surveillance and protected at all times. Unfortunately we miscalculated. He also targeted Mrs Hudson and yourself. This didn't change the overall plan, but raised the stakes. Originally the plan was to arrest Moriarty and neutralise the snipers. Moriarty's suicide forced Sherlock's hand. He didn't want to 'die', but he put the contingency plan in place should it be required."

"So this Location Three, this is where Sherlock is waiting?"

"I would hope so if all is going to plan. My brother has been supplied with copies of all the data we have so far. Once we arrive on site I trust that Sherlock will have some leads for us. He has the most extensive knowledge of what remains of Moriarty's network. As he has been incommunicado for the last few days, I am hopeful that he has more up to date information."

A few minutes later, they drew into a subterranean car park beside the Thames. Leaving the vehicle, they walked into an office. Two walls were covered with banks of screens, all showing CCTV images. Operatives monitored the screens, and sent images to be collated on a large screen on the third wall. To one side there was a smaller conference room. Sherlock was sat cross legged in the middle of the meeting table, surrounded by papers, presumably intelligence reports. His clothes were rumpled and grubby and his hair was unkempt. He had a couple of days worth of stubble on his chin. He looked tired.

"Mycroft, any news from your minions?"

"You know there isn't Sherlock. All communications are currently being coordinated here."

"Hmm. Any news on the tranquilizer used on the security team?"

"It was ketamine. Analysis shows it bore no unique qualities and is a brand readily available over the internet. However the darts used were part of a special order. The gunsmith responsible is well known to us and 'voluntarily' supplied his customer list. One name stood out. Sebastian Moran uses this man for specialist ammunition for his various sniper rifles and for some sort of long range air rifle."

"Sebastian Moran? Didn't you mention him before? Is he linked to Moriarty, cos if he is he isn't covering his tracks too well."

Sherlock looked up at the DI for the first time. Greg could tell Sherlock was frantic but doing his best to keep a cool façade. For the first time he truly understood why Sherlock always remained so detached at crime scenes – emotions really didn't help.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran was an expert marksman and sniper, dishonourably discharged from the Army after a row with Major Roger Markham over illegal gambling. The Colonel attacked the Major in the Mess at Camp Bastion in front of thirty four witnesses. The Colonel was heard to threaten the Major's life and that of his family. That, along with his previous disciplinary record, was enough for the MOD to cut its losses and dishonourably discharge the Colonel. He was thought to have returned to the UK, however, seventeen days later Major Markham was shot and fatally wounded by a sniper. He died shortly after being operated upon by Captain John Watson. An investigation was launched into the shooting, but the evidence lead nowhere. The sniper round was unique and hand made, but with nothing to compare it to, it was impossible to trace. Suspicion rested with Colonel Moran, but the man had disappeared. Upon discharge there was no further record of him."

"Wait, the fake finger print Molly found. That was Major Markham's?"

Sherlock again looked at Lestrade this time with some degree of admiration. "Well deduced. Yes. I believe that Sebastian Moran and Philip Baker were recruited by Moriarty. In fact, I have evidence that Moran was John's sniper both at the pool and at Bart's. I believe he took a personal interest given their mutual acquaintance, Roger Markham. I have further evidence that Moran had become Moriarty's right hand man. His enforcer. He does not have the intelligence to take over the operation, but that won't stop him trying. Moran is a skilled sniper and a cunning and violent man, but he is no consulting criminal. He knows I am alive. I believe he suspected as Moriarty's empire fell. Unfortunately we ran into each other, quite literally, three weeks ago in Casablanca. I thought my disguise sufficient to prevent recognition, but I fear I underestimated his keen vision. Of course, as soon as he knew I was alive, he had to action Moriarty's final command, if only for his own enjoyment – kill John Watson."

"If that's the case why didn't he just shoot him? Why go to the lengths of a kidnapping and leaving clues everywhere."

"Because he wants to use John to draw me out, to remove the threat to his ambition. He has deliberately left a trail that any semi-competent investigator could follow. He wants me to find him so he can kill John, burn out my heart as Moriarty promised, then surpass the master and kill me too."

"Oh."

-0-0-0-

Sherlock re-emerged from wherever he'd been in his mind some ten minutes later and continued the conversation as if nothing had happened.

"What do we know about Moran? He is cunning, he is extremely violent, he enjoys the kill, he is a sniper so, whilst he is skilled in hand to hand combat he prefers to kill from a distance. He has an overinflated idea of his own worth. He wants to prove that he can take on Moriarty's mantle, not to us but to the remaining of Moriarty's cohorts. He thinks he is clever and that, by achieving what Moriarty did not he will prove himself a worthy successor. He has laid a trail clearly leading to him – Markham's finger prints link John to him, as do the specialist darts left only with the security team, but not where they snatched John. The hospital was clean, the only forensic evidence being the spilled coffee and the wheel marks – things that they could not plan for and could not clean up in the few seconds available to them. But despite having only seconds they did clean up. With the security team they had all the time they wanted. They even collected them together and moved them all to the alley behind Angelo's – a location of significance for myself and John. They had no excuse to leave the darts, except if they meant to leave them. Again, Moran was leaving a trail to himself and he was willing to burn his ammunition supplier to do it."

"Meaning?" Lestrade looked confused. "Oh I get it, meaning he didn't care. He is planning to move on to bigger and better things. That we have his identity and his gunsmith mean nothing, because once this is over he will be able to re-invent himself. But what about Philip Baker's print on the clipboard? Is he planning to burn Baker to?"

"No I don't think so. I think he is grooming Baker to be his right hand man, but Baker is sloppy. He took off both his gloves in the morgue to sign the release papers, not just the one for the hand with the false prints. This shows Moran's weakness. Moriarty would have ensured that all fingerprints were faked, just in case, but Moran only faked the right hand, forgetting that Baker might instinctively remove both gloves and therefore leave his own prints. No, that was a mistake. He did not intend to give us Baker, but it is just one more link to Moran."

"This is good, but how does it help us find John?"

"Moran will contact us, probably through either you Lestrade or Professor Morstan." He almost spat her name. "Moran has John's phone and therefore his contacts list. Mycroft I suggest you bring her here immediately. We need that message straight away. Whoever he calls will be instructed to contact you with instructions to contact me. Moran knows I am alive, but not my whereabouts. I could still be overseas and he will make allowances for that as drawing me out is his priority, so that gives us time."

"But why wouldn't he call Mycroft directly?"

"Contacting Mycroft directly is too risky. He will assume that any and all direct communications with Mycroft are automatically traced. I believe he is still playing by Moriarty's rules from two years ago. He will assume Mycroft is in touch with me, but that the animosity between us continues."

"Yes brother, I will be glad when we can at least be civil to each other again. This continued façade is wearing."

"I quite agree brother."

"You mean all this sibling rivalry was an act?"

Mycroft turned to the bemused DI. "Not all. There has always been a … rivalry between us, but the level of animosity we portrayed once we realised the threat Moriarty posed was indeed artificial. It allowed me to feed Moriarty spurious information whilst apparently isolating Sherlock from my protection. Moriarty knew I had Sherlock and John under surveillance, but did not believe I cared about their wellbeing as much as protecting the Holmes name and my political interests. It kept Sherlock as the focus of Moriarty's plans and allowed me to move unseen."

"Oh, OK. So it's just going to be one of those days I spend confused. Surprisingly I've actually missed them." Lestrade grinned as the Holmes brothers shared a wry smile.

"As to what Moran will do with John. I suspect that his own lack of originality will encourage him to be oh so clever and use Moriarty's first meeting with me as his blueprint. He will think himself quite brilliant to complete that first meeting how it should have been. A pool, a bomb vest, snipers and a big bang."

"My god, the pool!"

"I would be surprised if we find it is anywhere else."

Sherlock slid to the edge of the table, stood and stretched.

"Now I want tea. It will not be to John's standard, but are any of your minions capable of making a decent cuppa?" Lestrade smirked at Sherlock's use of John's slang term for a cup of tea.

So they sat, drinking tea, awaiting Mary's arrival and a phone call from Moran.

Lestrade sat back on the sofa and shut his eyes, grabbing rest while he could. So much had happened in such a short time, he could not believe that John had been gone less than four hours.

Taking advantage of Lestrade's closed eyes Mycroft gently leant towards his brother and placed a pen in his pocket. "I suspect this will be of use to you later."

"Thank you brother."

Short minutes later, Mary arrived in one of Mycroft's cars.

"Hello Greg. Why am I here? Is there news of John?" Her face was pale and drawn and her eyes were red from crying. She looked around the three men, nodding her acknowledgement to Mycroft. Her face brightened slightly with something akin to hope when she realised the identity of the third man. "Sherlock Holmes. A pleasure to meet you at last."

Sherlock cast his eyes over the woman before him, taking in everything. "I see why he loves you. You are intelligent, adventurous and an excellent match for him."

"Thank you. Now if you can find him we can have him back."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. '_We_ can have him back.' Interesting.

* * *

**Glossary:**  
trolley - known as a gurney in the US  
ETA - estimated time of arrival  
A&E - Accident & Emergency  
MOD - Ministry of Defence

Meiringen, Switzerland - the town near the Reichenbach Falls


	4. Chapter 4

The phone call came at precisely midday, to Lestrade's phone. It was John. The monotone of his voice was familiar to Sherlock and indicated that his deductions were correct. John was being told what to say via an earpiece. His use of that monotone was almost certainly John's way of telling Sherlock it was the same situation as last time. He couldn't know Sherlock was listening live but would assume Mycroft was at least recording the message. Any extra clue he could give may yet save his life. The slightly strange timbre of his voice against the background noise also confirmed proximity to a large body of water – the pool.

"Tell Mycroft Holmes to get Sherlock. I know he is alive. Doctor Watson will die unless Sherlock Holmes arrives within six hours. You have until 18 hundred hours or I will stop Watson's heart. Tell Sherlock, he will know where."

As the call ended there was silence for a few moments. Mary's hand had flown to her mouth as soon as she heard John's voice. She whispered "Oh my god!" Greg rested a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

Mycroft spoke first. "So, the pool. I would send in a team, but with snipers John would be killed instantly. Gas is also an option but again, its effects would not be instantaneous giving a sniper time to get off a shot."

"No, it must be me. I must go in alone. That is what Moran is expecting. After all I am notorious for running off without backup. He will expect me to trust no-one but myself with John's safety. He will also expect that neither Lestrade nor yourself will recognise the allusion to the incident at the pool."

"How many men do you think he will have?"

"Two snipers, himself and Baker inside the pool. I suspect a few men guarding the perimeter, but given the size of the kidnap team I would say no more than four. All military trained though, Moran would only select professionals for his team. Deadly, but with little initiative. If Baker is his chosen number two then the others will have even less intelligence and will simply follow orders. If I go in alone I will draw all attention to me. Once I am inside the perimeter the guards will expect no further interference. Now, we have five hours and fifty four minutes. Let's get to work."

-0-0-0-

At 5:25 pm Sherlock approached the pool. A black clad figure halted his progress and patted him found a wallet, passport, mobile, notepad and pen. He shoved everything back into Sherlock's hands, except the mobile which he threw to the ground and smashed with the heel of his boot.

"I'm not armed."

"Just checking. Go in. The Colonel is expecting you."

As Sherlock moved forward the man radioed ahead. A sign on the door said 'Closed for maintenance' and the building echoed to his lone footsteps.

The darkened pool was much as it had been some three years previously. John was again standing easy between the changing rooms and the poolside, except this time Moran had forgone the overcoat. John was clearly sheathed in a semtex laden vest.

As Sherlock approached, John came to attention. Sherlock suspected at Moran's order. "Hello Sherlock, glad you could make it."

Sherlock truly hated that monotone, but he knew John was using it deliberately.

"I'm sure John is very surprised to see you. When I told him you were coming he didn't believe me and swore you were dead."

Sherlock knew that John had been lying. Mycroft had told him John had worked it out and was keeping his cover not long after John had stormed the Diogenes Club. Well done John for keeping Moran wrong-footed. If Moran thought John was shocked or angry at finding his dead friend alive, he would not suspect collusion.

He walked towards John, his eyes never leaving his friend's face. When he was barely two metres from his friend John's flat monotone repeated Moran's orders. "Stop there. Don't move any further."

Sherlock wanted to smile at his friend, give him some reassurance, but he knew that they were under close scrutiny. His features remained a blank mask.

Moran's voice then rang out, echoing around the pool making it hard to pinpoint his location. "Are you shocked John? Do you want to punch him for his betrayal, for not trusting you enough? You can answer me."

"You bastard! I'm going to kill you!" John seethed, his stance becoming hostile and his hands clenching and unclenching. Sherlock feigned a flinch at John's words, knowing they were actually aimed at Moran.

"Good. You tell him how you feel. How he ruined your life. How he made you think you were special and then took it all away."

Interesting, was Moran talking about his own relationship with John, or Moran's relationship with Moriarty? Sherlock deduced the latter. Time to start really focussing that attention on himself.

"Did dear Jim hurt your pride Sebby? Didn't he tell you what he had planned for that day on the roof? "

A red light appeared on John's chest over his heart. John's eyes followed Sherlock's gaze as they flicked down to the glow on his chest then up to the balcony calculating the position of the sniper.

"Didn't he trust you enough to tell you everything? He could have declared you his successor in the event of his demise. Then there wouldn't have been this power struggle. But he didn't did he. Did he even tell you that he was so bored with it all that he was going to blow his brains out on that roof? You must have seen the images. Did you think I had killed him? It must have been a shock to find he did it himself just to force me to jump."

An unwavering red light appeared in the middle of Sherlock's forehead.

John's eyes flicked to the dot and stared pointedly at it. This gave Sherlock its location on his face and he too began scanning the balcony, calculating the location of his sniper. He suspected that he was being targeted by Moran himself, after all Moran would want to claim the bigger kill.

Outside the world continued as normal, with the sounds of passing vehicles, even an ice cream van playing its cheerful tune. Meanwhile the tension in the pool was almost tangible.

Sherlock glanced at John and worked the pen out of his trouser pocket. John did the same with his own pocket. A small blink of confirmation and two sets of eyes zeroed in on their respective snipers in their positions on the balcony.

Moran was rambling on through huffs of poorly suppressed anger about how great Jim was and how Moran was going to exact his revenge on the two men below him. If he was talking he probably wasn't aiming and that wouldn't do.

"Good grief Sebby, monologuing. Really? Have you been watching too many Bond films recently?"

The pool went silent and the dot on Sherlock's forehead that had been wavering became deadly still.

John blinked. Sherlock blinked once, twice and on three both men flicked the switches on their pens, bringing the laser pens to bear on their respective snipers.

The two snipers swore as the flare from the lasers temporarily blinded them. The red lights on John and Sherlock wavered and fell away. As scuffling was heard in the balcony, Sherlock pulled John to the cover of the changing rooms.

Sherlock was frantic, trying to find out how to remove the vest without detonating the explosives.

John sighed. "It's OK Sherlock. It's OK." John took Sherlock's face in his hands and looked into his scared eyes. "I disarmed it when they left me alone in the changing room. If Moran had done his research he'd have known I'd done some training with the SAS. Stupid arse even used the same design vest as last time – must have been the remains of a job lot left over from the Pips. After last time I got Lestrade to arrange for one of the bomb squad to show me how to disarm it. Whoever designed it didn't even have the intelligence to put the trigger on the back out of reach. S'pose they thought it wasn't necessary for putting on housewives, grannies and children."

"So if you'd disarmed the vest why didn't you escape when they left you alone? Ahh, the guards. Even you are unwilling to take on four heavily armed former Marines. And once you'd escaped you couldn't guarantee getting word to me in time. If you didn't make your appearance on cue, Moran would have executed me where I stood."

John just gave him the look that meant 'obviously'.

"Thank you John."

Sherlock calmed as John carefully undid and removed the vest. He calmed more as John leant forward to embrace his best friend.

"I'm glad you're back. Let's go home."

"Home?"

"Baker Street. Home. You'll love it. Mycroft has done up Flat C as your lab and office, don't worry, I supervised. And we've moved the old sofa down there just so you can sulk in peace. Oh and it's been soundproofed so you can blow things up as much as you like without disturbing Mrs Hudson."

"So, I'll be living in C?"

"No idiot, you'll be living in Flat B. Your room is still waiting for you, although we have moved your equipment down to C."

"But you and Mary …"

"Will be living in B with you, if you'll have us."

"Oh."

One of Mycroft's cars pulled up and transported John and Sherlock to Baker Street. Sherlock was silent the whole trip, his fingers steepled under his chin.

John pulled out his phone, recovered from Moran, and called Mycroft to confirm the mission was successful. As expected, the four guards had been quickly captured, whilst the distraction of the laser pens allowed Mycroft's men to secure Baker and Moran without incident. The bomb had been neutralised.

"Using the ice cream van as the signal that you were in position was a nice touch."

"Well done John for spotting that. Not many would have done so in your position."

"Well no-one else has had quite as much exposure to the Holmes thought process as me, except possibly Anthea or whatever her name is this week. Will Moran go on trial? Have you enough evidence to convict? I don't think I could go through a repeat of Moriarty's trial."

"Never fear John. Moran, Baker and his team will never see the inside of a court room, much to the Detective Inspector's disgust. They will be imprisoned somewhere safe for the rest of their lives, however short they may be."

John grinned. Oh yes, that was one of Mycroft's threats.

-0-0-0-

Their arrival at Baker Street was greeted by admonishments, tears and hugs from Mrs Hudson for both of them.

John was told off for getting kidnapped and scaring them all to death.

Sherlock was roundly scolded for faking his death and putting them all, especially poor John, through all that grief.

Mary stood on the stairs, her eyes shining with happy tears as she scanned her fiancé for injuries. John's eyes kept flicking to Mary sending her a silent apology as he tried to extricate himself from Mrs Hudson's continued mothering.

Sherlock again saved the day. "Well Mrs Hudson, I'm sure all John needs now is a shower, a cup of tea and some time with his fiancée."

"Quite right dear, and here I am keeping you in this draughty hall. Go on, up you go. You'll have so much to talk about." And with a final hug for both her boys she bustled off into her flat.

John reached for Mary's waiting hand as they walked quietly up the stairs.

Sherlock followed them up, taking it all in and wondering what he had missed.

-0-0-0-

While John showered, Sherlock drank in the flat. Less had changed than he expected during his two year absence and the arrival of Mary. He had expected more feminine touches.

Some things had changed. Many of his books and papers and all his scientific equipment had gone, presumably downstairs to Flat C. The bull's skull had been replaced by a cheerful landscape painting. The sofa was new, and bigger. He wasn't sure why.

Much had remained. The skull was still on the mantle and his violin was still in its place.

"I had it properly serviced every six months. It should still be correctly tuned."

John had emerged from the shower, clad in his dressing gown and rubbing his hair with a towel. He had obviously noticed where Sherlock was looking.

"I see your skills in deduction are as sharp as ever."

"I learnt from the best."

"My room?"

"Is still as it was, except for the addition of a few boxes of your things. Your clothes are in the wardrobe and your sock index is intact. The room just needs a bit of an airing and some clean bed clothes and you're good to go."

"And you and Mary?"

"In my room. Look Sherlock, we can talk about this later. Go and have a shower then I will give you a proper physical, just to find out what you've been putting yourself through. In the meantime, Mary will cook dinner, which you will eat. I think we can leave discussions about the future until tomorrow when we're all rested and thinking clearly. And don't worry Sherlock, it's all fine."

Sherlock completed his shower. It was bliss to be able to use his own products. He actually smelt like himself for the first time in over two years. That alone helped him to start to relax.

Remembering to put on his dressing gown, he left the bathroom and headed for his bedroom. A fully clothed John was waiting for him armed with his med kit. Sherlock revelled in the feel of John's fingers on his skin as the doctor professionally assessed his scars and injuries.

As John touched and examined each wound, he stated what had caused it.

"Bullet five months ago?"

"Yes, sniper. Munich."

"Knife about eighteen months ago. This was a close call but professionally treated."

"Machete. Somewhere in Colombia. Treated by one of Mycroft's doctors in Cartagena."

"Oh god Sherlock, these burns! About nine months old. I'm guessing a car battery?"

"Yes. A makeshift torture room in Los Angeles."

"They paid?"

"Oh yes. They definitely paid."

"Good." John's face was a picture of grim satisfaction.

John wasn't happy with how one recent wound had been treated. He applied a local anaesthetic. Minutes later he removed the stitches, thoroughly cleaned and treated the laceration before re-stitching and dressing the wound.

"You shouldn't really have showered with this."

"No, but I wasn't going to miss out on my first decent shower in over a month."

"OK. Get dressed. It smells like dinner is ready."

John and Mary were already sat at the table when Sherlock arrived. Mary dished up a plate of spaghetti bolognese and placed it in front of the detective. Sherlock eyed it warily before John fixed him with his steely 'you will do as I say' glare.

"Eat now. At least half. You're skin and bone. Now eat."

He forced the first forkful into his mouth like a petulant child. As he chewed he realised that the food tasted really good. Mary was at least a halfway decent cook. To keep John happy he decided to make the sacrifice and eat.

As the meal continued John brought Mary up to speed on the day's events. Occasionally Sherlock chipped in with his side of the tale, and, of course, his brilliant deductions.

Sherlock wasn't sure whether it was shock, John's blasé attitude to what had transpired or just relief that it was over, but Mary seemed quite calm about the day's events. Sherlock had anticipated hysterics or at least tears. He was prepared to be blamed for putting John in danger, but the grateful glances and half smiles Mary sent in his direction confused him.

John explained that, following his discussion about snipers with Mycroft all those months ago, he had been carrying a special laser pen as a matter of course. Disguised as a normal pen, it was designed to blind snipers temporarily as they focussed through their scope. Despite Mycroft's surveillance John had assumed that he would be a likely target should Sherlock's survival become known.

As John continued to talk and reassure Mary that it was all over, Sherlock continued to deduce this woman.

Doctor, caring, used to living with danger probably through one of the humanitarian relief work organisations. Invalided home through illness, probably malaria. No, not home, went to Australia, Queensland by the slight accent. Specialising in tropical diseases – useful. Friend of John's from med school. Returned to UK a little under four years ago. Loss of a family member, probably a parent. Second child of four. Close relationship with her siblings. Deeply in love with John. Asexual.

As the last deduction was made, Sherlock raised an eyebrow in surprise. How could John be engaged to someone who was asexual? Given everything he knew about John, or thought he knew. This required further examination.

Having finished more than the requisite half of his meal, Sherlock thanked Mary, excused himself from the table and, having completed his evening ablutions, made his way to bed.

John stared at the back of his retreating friend open mouthed. He shook his head in disbelief. "Well love, you certainly made an impression. I've never seen Sherlock be so polite except when undercover or to extract information from a witness."

Sherlock spent much of the night in his mind palace examining and re-examining everything he knew about John Watson.

-0-0-0-

The next morning, Sherlock was already up and in his t-shirt, pyjama bottoms and dressing gown sitting in his armchair and plucking his violin when John and Mary entered the kitchen.

"Let me sort out that dressing for you while the kettle boils, then we can have breakfast and talk."

They sat at the table. Mary and John had poached egg on toast whilst Sherlock cradled a cup of tea. John had made him boiled egg and soldiers, which Sherlock seemed to be quite enjoying.

"I was wrong."

John and Mary looked up at Sherlock.

"Well that's quite a startling admission. And what were you wrong about?"

"You. I broke one of my own rules and made deductions with incomplete data. Had I bothered to double check my findings instead of allowing my own hubris to blind me, I would have realised that you identify as asexual shortly after we first met."

"Ahh, you've finally noticed that then. I did wonder why, after finding that porn, you didn't just ask me."

"I did check your laptop again, but assumed that you had become better at covering your tracks."

"No. It was a one time thing to find out what had changed and what I needed following my return from Afghanistan. And before you ask, the change was that I needed someone close by while I slept due to the nightmares. Hence the nights spent sleeping over at a date's house."

"So, no sex."

"No Sherlock, no sex."

"But 'Three Continents Watson'?"

"Just because there was no sex didn't mean I couldn't be popular with the ladies. I was always a perfect gentleman. I would kiss their hand, treat them like a lady and give them all of my attention. I loved it and so did they. Apart from the dates I dumped mid meal because you called me away, or those you insulted to their face, most of my exes would probably say I was quite charming."

Mary was grinning and stroking John's hand. "Oh I can vouch for that. When John Watson turns on the charm you feel like the most glamorous woman in the world."

"And you Mary, also asexual?"

"As you no doubt deduced. Yes. John and I met at Uni as good friends, nothing more, then went our separate ways after graduation. We met again just after … well."

"Yes. It was Mary who helped me make sense of it all and then helped me keep it together while I faked grieving for my best friend. Although it wasn't all fake. I missed you, you mad git, and I worried about you, constantly." John smirked, leading to Sherlock giving a crooked smile in reply.

"So, where do we go from here?"

"Mary and I have discussed this in depth, and if you're agreeable, we think this would work. As discussed, you use C as your lab and office. You should go down and see what Mycroft has done to the place. And you have your very own fridge freezer, well it's actually the old one from up here, so you can store body parts to your heart's content without contaminating our food. All three of us share B. It's perfect for us, and I'm on hand to help you with cases so you don't lose your blogger. In fact, as far as you and I are concerned, if you want that is, we can go back to how we were before … well, before."

"But you're engaged and straight. Mary, won't you mind?"

"Sherlock, Mary and I have discussed this. I love her, we are getting married and I want you as my best man. I want to stand up with the two people I love. Don't look so horrified, yes I love you, you daft bugger. I've always known I was attracted to women and very occasionally men, which I suppose would label me as biromantic. Mary was one of the people who helped me work out how to deal with how I felt while we were flatmates at Uni. At the time there wasn't much information available – no Google or Wikipedia. I soon learned that the labels were actually pretty meaningless. I am John Hamish Watson and I am who I am. Mary has no problem with my feelings for you, especially as she knows I have absolutely no interest in sex. I'm sure the gossips at the Yard will see it as some kinky ménage a trois, which I suppose it will be in a way. But only if you're comfortable with the relationship. Mary already knows almost all your foibles so there's not much you can throw at her to scare her off."

"Truthfully Sherlock, I've lived in worse places and with more difficult people than you. I am quite happy to share John with you, because it will make him happy, and what makes him happy makes me happy. And don't you worry, if I start feeling neglected I will make damn sure you both know about it."

"And what if I want a sexual liaison?"

John steepled his fingers under his chin in imitation of his friend. "Sherlock, prolonged observation shows you to be either asexual or celibate. I would say the former. You have no problem displaying your body, but do not appreciate anyone encroaching upon your personal space. I also know that you are predominantly attracted to men, but I suspect only men you are already in a close relationship with. You will accept a handshake without gloves or even a hug from Lestrade, but with other acquaintances you rarely allow the touch of bare skin unless it is essential to the Work. Mrs Hudson is allowed unprecedented levels of physical contact, especially for a woman because you accept her as family." Sherlock raised an eyebrow and gave a slight nod confirming John's analysis. Accepting the confirmation John continued "However, with me, you accept and give an incredibly high level of intimacy and physical interaction, and not just when I'm treating injuries. In fact, you often find my touch soothing. Therefore, I would say that you are attracted to me beyond the levels of friendship. And given that you have risked your life for me and … died for me, I would say that that attraction may even be love. How was my diagnosis?" He asked, grinning at his friend whilst reclaiming Mary's hand.

"John, I am astounded by your … oh shit, I can't do this." Sherlock leapt from the table, his arms waving in frustration.

John's face fell. His grasp on Mary's hand becoming tighter in his distress.

"I can't do the great consulting detective act. Not with you. Yes, you are right on almost every point. and yes, I admit I love you and have done for some time. I tried to put some distance between us at Baskerville …"

"The experiment?"

"Exactly, that stupid and ill-conceived experiment. But that was even as events conspired to bring us closer together whilst preparing to rip us apart. I won't lie, I was delighted to hear that you had confronted Mycroft. I knew my John, if anyone, could discover the truth, but when I heard that you were dating and then engaged to Mary I was devastated. I honestly thought that Moriarty had won, that my heart had been burned out of me." By now Sherlock was again seated at the table, his fingers flexing across its surface, reaching for John but not feeling able to touch.

"Oh Sherlock." John reached across the table closing the space between them and stroked his friend's hand. "But you still came for me."

"Yes, when I realised Moran had recognised me in Casablanca I alerted Mycroft and returned to the UK as soon as possible. Unfortunately I was delayed somewhat getting out of Morocco safely, and Mycroft's security detail proved less than adequate. But there was never any question that, if you were in danger, I would do all in my power to protect you."

"And I you."

John continued to stroke the back of Sherlock's hand. Sherlock turned his hand palm up and entwined his fingers with John.

"I'm glad you're home Sherlock. I mean, you are home aren't you, here, with us?"

Sherlock looked from John to Mary. She smiled at him and nodded her head as if willing him to say yes. Mary was an exceptional woman, and he was surprised to find he was becoming fond of her. And John was his heart. This had been the only place he had ever truly felt comfortable, with John. And the addition of Mary seemed to have only enhanced that feeling.

"Yes, I think I am."

-0-0-0-

John Watson paused a moment as he struggled with his tie and contemplated his reflection. Once again his life was at a watershed, about to be changed irrevocably by circumstance. This was one of the few times when that decision had been his and the result would be good, all good.

"Here, let me help you with that."

John turned, grinning, as Sherlock set down his hat and reached forward towards John's tie.

"No regrets?"

"No John, no regrets."

"I wouldn't want anyone else up there with me but you."

"I know."

Sherlock finished tying John's tie. He gently brushed his hands down John's shoulders then reached down to take his hands in his own.

"A kiss for the groom?"

"Would be lovely."

Pulling gently on John's hands, Sherlock placed a tender kiss on his partner's lips.

A muffled cough from the door alerted them to Greg's presence.

"We're ready to go if you are."

"Yes Greg, we're ready."

Collecting their hats, they moved together towards the altar.

John stood in front of his family and friends with the two people who were his life. He was married to the woman he loved under the piercing gaze of the man he loved. As Sherlock took Mary's left hand and leant forward to kiss her in congratulations, John gently entwined her fingers with his.

Tonight they would all return to Baker Street and curl up together on their enormous sofa. They would laugh about what they remembered of today, drink wine and giggle at the photos and video Mycroft would no doubt have waiting for them. John could think of nothing better.

* * *

**Glossary:**  
soldiers - a slice of toast cut in half then into fingers for dipping in a soft boiled egg.

* * *

**There you go. I hope you liked it.**


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